


Reckless Hearts Soon Collide

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (Very mild), Angst, Body Horror, Emotions, Ficlets, Fluff, M/M, Season 5 Spoilers, Tumblr Prompt, canon typical cows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-01-30 11:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 16,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: A selection of Jon/Martin ficlets originally posted on tumblr.Other characters and pairings appear without warning, but Jon/Martin is always at the heart (as it is always in mine).
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 129
Kudos: 325





	1. Milk and two sugars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written in March. The cow-related part clearly proves my deep, accurate understanding of Martin's character.

Since he woke up, Jon has taken it on himself to Make The Tea in the Archives.

Basira was startled and a little suspicious the first time he set a mug down by her elbow, because she didn’t even think he knew where they kept the teabags.

“I just thought you might like some,” Jon told her with exaggerated nonchalance that he’d obviously been rehearsing. He retreated into his office before she could say anything.

Now that Melanie is speaking to him, Jon makes her tea as well, which she accepts even though she really prefers coffee. He even makes tea for Helen, although no one ever sees her drinking it. She takes the cups away, though, and they come back…different.

There is one mug that Jon never uses when making tea. It is a large mug with a fluffy Highland cow on it, and it sits in the cupboard gathering dust, never entering the rotation. Everyone knows whose favorite mug it was.

Nobody really minds that Jon isn’t all that good at making tea, because that’s not what Making The Tea is about. Everyone understands that he’s trying to fill a gap that has nothing at all to do with tea. There’s no need to acknowledge it.

Nobody comments on the fact that Jon doesn’t drink tea himself, anymore.


	2. No sinister hidden motives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon sure was flustered when he said "office gossip", wasn't he?

Jon can’t stop thinking about it. It’s stupid, because there are far more important things for him to be thinking about, what with the imminent end of the world. And because it’s just idle gossip, his colleagues letting their imaginations run wild as if they didn’t have anything more interesting to occupy them. (Once again: end of the world.)

It’s weird, how people talk about you when they don’t think you can hear. Jon hopes Martin never hears that tape, because it would only embarrass him, regardless of whether it’s true. Which it isn’t, of course. It’s ridiculous to even consider it. Certainly Martin is kind to him, excessively so sometimes, and when Jon protests, tells him that if he won’t take care of himself, Martin will do so for him. Martin takes care of everyone, though. It’s not - it’s ridiculous.

(Jon’s not too thrilled that his sexuality is apparently a subject of office discussion either. Or that Georgie told Melanie. It’s not that he’s ashamed of it or anything, it’s just, well, private. He’d rather be the one discussing it, and only with who he wants to.)

He still can’t stop thinking about it, though. Every time Martin greets him with a smile in the morning, every unexpected cup of tea that lands on his desk, brings it back to mind. It’s distracting, and not exactly helpful when he’s trying to focus on stopping the Unknowing. He pushes it away as forcefully as he can, because it’s a pointless thought, and he can’t even let himself consider what he would want to do about it if it was true.

(He hasn’t had a - a relationship in a very long time. Hasn’t thought of it as something he might want. Something that’s even an option. It’s become…comfortable. And now that ridiculous gossip has raised the thought in his head, that _maybe I could, if I wanted to,_ and along with it the uncomfortable consideration of _do I? _He doesn’t know how to answer that, even to himself.)

The night before they leave, Jon stays late in his office, listening to the others’ recorded statements. It’s not easy, listening to them all speak, knowing that some of them may die tomorrow, and he will be responsible. But it’s important. They made the effort to lay down their thoughts on tape. The least he can do is hear, and understand.

Martin’s statement is shy, and fearful, and Jon has to admit that Martin does a pretty good impression of him (he feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth). _I need him to be okay, _Martin says then, his voice soft and pleading, and something in Jon yearns towards that softness, his breath catching minutely in his throat.

_Oh_, he thinks, because there it all is. The truth of that office gossip. The answer he didn’t know how to give.

There’s no time. They’re leaving in four hours, and Martin and Melanie will need to be focused for their part of this. No time for distractions, when the world depends on them. Jon could laugh, because honestly he really does have the worst timing when it comes to these things.

Afterwards, though. If they both make it. If the world makes it, then there’ll be time. He still has no idea how he’ll talk to Martin about it, since _our colleagues were gossiping about your feelings for me_ probably isn’t a great opening. He’ll think of something, though, because it’s important. And Martin is kind, too kind to judge Jon for being awkward. Kind enough to accept him as he is, the way Martin always has.

In fact, Jon thinks, talking to Martin might not even be that difficult.


	3. Flesh calls to flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elodie suggested Flesh!Martin/Jon, and it inspired me.

“Are you, ah, sure you know what you’re doing?”

Martin huffs a soft laugh, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“It doesn’t exactly come with a manual, Jon,” he says. “But yes, I think so. Am I hurting you?”

“Not hurting, exactly,” Jon shakes his head, his breath coming shallow and quick. “Just feels…strange.”

Martin nods and pushes forward a little further, wearing an expression of intense focus. He is very warm. Has been, since - well, since everything, his skin radiating an almost feverish heat that Jon can feel every time they’re close. Feels it now more than ever, almost overwhelmingly hot. He digs his nails into his palms and braces as Martin moves again, trying not to look down at where their bodies are joined.

He fails, and feels a faint, nauseous panic wash over him at the sight of Martin’s arm, sleeve rolled up past the elbow, plunged into his abdomen. There is no blood, and he’s not sure if that’s better or worse. He forces himself to stay calm, reminds himself that he _asked_ Martin for this. It’s the only way he can think of to save Daisy, and Martin seems to think it will work as well. Flesh calls to flesh.

“Think I’ve got it,” Martin says, reaching a little further, and Jon feels a sick tugging sensation, then a harder wrench and hears a _snap_ and oh, there’s the pain. He feels the blood draining from his face and grabs both of Martin’s shoulders to steady himself, a pained gasp escaping him.

“Sorry,” Martin says, looking concerned. “Almost there.”

He carefully starts withdrawing his arm, and Jon watches in horrified fascination as the limb slides out of him, as Martin’s hand comes into view, clasping a curved length of bone. His bone, and he feels suddenly weak. Leans forward against Martin’s solid heat as Martin strokes an apologetic hand across his belly, lets his head fall against Martin’s shoulder. His abdomen is aching and tender, and he’s sure there’ll be bruising later.

“All right?” Martin asks him gently, his big arms coming up around Jon. Jon nods slowly against his neck, where he can feel the blood pulsing hot beneath Martin’s skin. He’s all right. It had to be done, and he’s glad he had Martin here for it. The alternatives don’t bear thinking about.

“Thanks Martin,” he says weakly. Martin presses a tender kiss to the side of his head.

“That’s all right,” he says. “Now I think you should lie down for a bit, and I’ll make you something to eat.”


	4. More lovely and more temperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Martin's poetry.

Martin would never compare Jon to a summer’s day. He is far from temperate, and Martin can only imagine the look he’d get if he called Jon lovely to his face. (What he thinks in his own head is none of Jon’s business.) Besides, Martin’s never been much of a Shakespeare fan.

Jon studied classics and comparative literature at King’s College, and Martin is astounded to learn he’s never read any Romance poetry.

“Not even Byron? Really?”

“Was he the one that died of consumption?” Jon asks, squinting. Martin sighs.

Jon doesn’t like Byron much, finds his work pretentious. Keats gets dismissed as soppy, and Martin can’t really argue it, but he’s always found that part of the charm. He has more success with Shelley. Jon’s somehow managed to reach the age of thirty without hearing about _Ozymandias, king of kings,_ but he quite likes it. Martin chalks it up as a win.

Even more of a win when Jon decides he needs an introduction to “real poetry”. Martin spends an afternoon lying on Jon’s sofa, his head pillowed against Jon’s thigh, while Jon reads him Virgil in the original Latin. Martin’s been learning, but he’s still only picking up the occasional fragment of meaning. It doesn’t matter, though, with Jon’s voice low and soothing in his ears, his free hand sifting through Martin’s hair.

“Amor vincit omnia,” Jon murmurs quietly, “Et nos cedamus amori.”

Martin recognizes that quote at least, and when he cranes his head to look up, Jon meets his gaze with a warmth that most people wouldn’t believe him capable of. Martin smiles as Jon’s hand moves to cup his cheek.

“Keep reading,” he says.

Martin lets Jon read some of his poems eventually. Not all of them, just the few he’s most pleased with. He’s nervous when he hands them over, mutters: “Best of a bad lot really,” and ducks his head.

“Thank you for sharing these with me, Martin,” Jon says solemnly, holding them carefully in his hands.

Martin thinks maybe someday he’ll ask Jon to record one of his poems. The thought of Jon’s voice reciting his words, deep and resonant, curling precisely around each syllable, makes him feel giddy. He’ll wait, though, until he has something he’s really proud of. Maybe one about someone who is really nothing like a summer’s day, but who is nonetheless as vital to Martin’s life as the sun.

Jon would probably be embarrassed, but he’d read it anyway, and Martin would love him even more for it.


	5. Under the skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I also have a lot of feelings about Jon's scars.

The scar on Jon’s right hand is shiny and taut, several shades lighter than the rest of him, wrapping around his palm and fingers in the rough shape of a handprint. He doesn’t feel much, where the burn is, sensation deadened and dull. Sometimes in dry weather the skin tightens, makes his fingers clumsy, and he thanks his stars he’s left handed. All in all, it’s not too much of an inconvenience, just unsightly.

The first time he and Martin go out together while knowing that they’re, well, _going out together, _they’re walking from the restaurant to the Tube station when Martin reaches over and fishes for his hand with almost painful nonchalance. It’s his right hand, and Jon stiffens a little as Martin’s closes around it, because he knows the scar feels odd, leathery to the touch. He doesn’t want Martin to be put off by it.

“Sorry,” says Martin, “I shouldn’t have assumed - ” His hand loosens on Jon’s, and Jon reflexively tightens his own grip, not wanting Martin to let go.

“No, it’s - it’s fine,” he says. “Nice,” he clarifies lamely. “I just - this hand is a bit - with the burn and all.”

“Does it hurt?” Martin asks, worried, and Jon shakes his head.

“No, I just thought it might feel a bit - weird. For you.”

“Oh,” says Martin. Then his hand squeezes Jon’s, warm and solid, and his thumb runs over the shiny mass of scar tissue. They don’t say anything else about it, and their hands stay locked together until they have to go their separate ways at the station. Jon’s hand feels empty all the way home.


	6. Warm and wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the HugJonSims2k19 challenge on tumblr!

**one.**

Jon honestly doesn’t know why he agreed to a team building exercise, and more than that, an escape room. But here he is, so he might as well get through this as quickly and with as much grace as possible. Honestly it’s not even that difficult, despite Martin’s best efforts to pull up the floorboards.

In the end, he’s the one to crack the final clue that stops the clock and opens the door. As the light streams in, the rest of the team cheers, and Tim slings a heavy arm around his shoulder, jostling him cheerfully.

“Nice work, boss,” he says, and Jon grumbles, but something in him is oddly pleased at the warm weight of camaraderie.

**two.**

“What’s this?” Sasha asks. She looks quizzically at the paper bag he’s holding out to her, as if it’s some mysterious artifact. Honestly, people do make things terribly difficult.

“There’s probably a better way to find out than questioning me about it,” he says testily. Sasha finally takes the bag, and pulls out the book inside.

“This is the one I wanted!” she exclaims. “It was out of stock everywhere I looked, how did you get it?”

“I took advantage of the Institute’s academic order system,” Jon tells her. “Which you should never do, obviously. But you’ve been going on about it for a week, I thought this was the only way I’d stop hearing about it.”

Sasha glowers at him, but her grin is breaking through, spoiling the effect. She darts forward and wraps her arms around him quickly, then springs back. Jon clears his throat awkwardly. He wasn’t expecting that.

“Thanks, Jon,” she says.

“Right, well, no need to make a fuss about it,” Jon says. Sasha rolls her eyes at him, still grinning.

**three.**

“This is ridiculous,” Melanie says tartly, looking at the floor. Jon rather agrees with her, but he’s not about to say anything about that when a literal manifestation of fear is giving them both her best puppy dog eyes.

“It’s therapeutic,” Helen says, laying a horrifying hand affectionately on Melanie’s arm. “I would like for you and the Archivist to be friends, because I like you both. I _do_ like you more,” she clarifies.

“Well that’s good at least,” Melanie snorts, but her expression softens slightly. Helen doesn’t say anything, but after a few moments Melanie sighs.

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s get this over with.”

The hug is stiff and awkward, and lasts approximately three-eighths of a second, and when they pull apart Helen is beaming at them. It’s a disconcerting expression.

“Wonderful!” says Helen. Melanie snorts again, but she meets Jon’s eyes for the first time in a long time.

**four.**

Helen hugs him almost immediately afterwards. It is terribly disorienting, and Jon doesn’t know how on earth Melanie’s gotten used to it.

**five.**

Basira takes him aside before she and Daisy leave. She’s guarded still, after everything, her face giving nothing away but the wary hope it’s held since they got their freedom.

“Look, Jon,” she says, “I don’t know what you said, to Elias. What you agreed to so he’d let me and Daisy go. But - I appreciate it.”

“I got you into this,” he tells her, trying for light hearted. “Least I could do is get you out.”

She makes the low _hmm_ sound that is so familiar by now, and Jon smiles. He’s going to miss her, despite the vast chasm of secrets and mistrust between them. Of all of them, she might understand him best.

He is genuinely startled when her arms go around him. It’s a brief, uncertain embrace, but Jon knows it takes a lot for Basira to give this much. His own hands pat her back tentatively, not wanting to push things, and after a moment she releases him. Smiles a little.

“Good luck with everything, Jon,” she says.

**six.**

Daisy hugs him in front of everyone, and how could he have imagined that this woman who once tried to kill him would be someone it breaks his heart to say goodbye to. Her arms around him are firm and strong, and Jon hugs her back, unafraid.

“Thanks, Jon,” she says. “For all of it, you know?”

Jon laughs helplessly at that, because he should be thanking _her_. He owes Daisy so much. He may have pulled her out of the Buried, but she helped to pull him out of a much darker place. They’re not much alike, but they both understand being wounded, and alone, and crushed beneath the weight of guilt and grief. It means a lot.

“I’m going to miss you,” he tells her, and she squeezes him a little harder. Murmurs against his ear so nobody else can hear:

“He’s going to come back, you know.”

Jon doesn’t know that, but Daisy’s strength makes him want to hope.

**seven.**

“Hi, Jon.”

The voice behind him is so familiar that Jon’s heart aches, even after all this time. He turns, hardly daring to believe what he’s going to see.

“Martin,” he breathes. “You’re here.”

Martin’s smile is less carefree than it used to be, sadder, but still just as bright. He’s standing at a careful distance, as if unsure of his welcome. Jon knows how he feels. It’s been so long.

“I’m sorry it took me this long,” Martin tells him. “I had to make sure - ”

Jon rushes forward before he can say anything else, because he doesn’t need explanations or apologies. Martin’s _here_, that’s all that matters. He pulls Martin against him, fiercely, wraps his arms around Martin’s solid warmth _(warm, not cold, he’s here, he’s here_) and clings for dear life. Hears Martin give a soft _oh_ before his arms come around Jon, holding him close and careful, like he can hardly believe he’s being allowed to.

“I missed you,” Jon tells him, pressing his face into Martin’s neck, feeling Martin’s breath catch. “I missed you so much.”

“I’m here,” Martin says. Tightens his arms around Jon, and Jon leans into it, never wanting to let him go. “I’m not going anywhere again. I promise.”

Jon holds onto him, and believes it. Martin’s here. He’s home. They both are.


	7. Save the world later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also for the HugJonSims2k19 challenge!

Jon has never been impressed by the demands of his own body.

Food, all right, yes, he is aware he needs to fuel himself on occasion. That doesn’t make it any easier to remember, when he loses himself inside his head for hours at a time, chasing some elusive scrap of knowledge.

Water he does his best to keep on top of, as he gets terrible headaches otherwise. Still, most of his hydration comes in the form of endless cups of tea, which Martin supplies with fond tolerance and firm insistence that he leave his office once in a while.

Oxygen, well, fortunately that happens automatically. At least there’s one sensibly organized system.

Sleep is the worst of the lot. It just takes so bloody long, and there are so many better things to be done with the time. Mostly he tries to snatch a few hours each night, because otherwise Martin gives him _that_ look, but sometimes the situation is too urgent and there simply isn’t the luxury. All Jon knows about sleep debt is that it’s something that happens in the future, and in his experience, it’s not really possible to push yourself _too_ far. He always falls asleep eventually. Or loses consciousness, at least, which amounts to the same thing.

It’s been about two and a half days, he thinks, since he’s slept during the latest crisis. It’s difficult to tell exactly, as his grasp of time has gotten fairly loose while he’s been researching, and he’s only left his office to use the lavatory. He’s close, though, he can feel it. There’s a breakthrough coming in the next file, the next statement, and although the words are starting to blur a little on the pages in front of him, it’s fine. He just squints at them until they behave. Maybe he’s getting to need glasses.

Jon isn’t sure how long Martin has been standing there and talking to him before he notices. It might have been a while, though, as Martin’s expression when Jon finally looks up at him is rather exasperated. Jon smiles at him, half in apology, and half because he thinks Martin looks very attractive when he’s trying to be stern.

“Pardon?” he says. Martin huffs at him.

“I _said_, enough is enough, Jon. I know we’re in crisis mode, which is why I’ve put up with you not leaving the Archives for a week, canceling dinner on me, not _washing,”_ he says pointedly. And fine, Jon concedes that one. His hair does feel greasily matted and he doesn’t remember when he put this shirt on.

“The point is, I put up with a lot,” Martin tells him, and he really does. He’s a saint, and Jon doesn’t deserve him. “But I will not tolerate you working yourself with no sleep until you collapse - and don’t even _pretend_ you’ve been sleeping on the camp bed.”

Jon shuts his mouth. He hadn’t been about to lie, exactly, just note that the camp bed exists, and let Martin draw his own conclusions. Just so he wouldn’t worry.

“I know you haven’t, because I changed the sheets three days ago and it hasn’t been slept in since.”

“Right,” says Jon. “So, uh…?”

“So you are going to get some sleep,” Martin tells him. “And because I _know_ you, I will be supervising to make sure that you _actually_ sleep.”

Jon would like to protest, he really would. All sorts of cogent arguments are lining themselves up in his throat, from the inarguable fact that this is an end of the world situation they’re dealing with, to the somewhat less defensible argument that he is an adult who does not need to be taken care of. But all his arguments dissipate at the sight of the worried crease that’s appeared between Martin’s eyebrows. Martin has worried about him far too often, for too many reasons. Jon can’t ever make up for that, but the least he can do is not give the man he loves additional cause to worry about him. Even if he’s not nearly too tired to keep working, really.

And, well, he has to admit that it feels nice, sometimes, to let Martin take care of him. He would never say that out loud short of some sort of bizarre self-compulsion incident, but it’s nice. A feeling sort of like relief, that drains the tension from his shoulders and settles as a mellow glow in his chest.

“I - all right, Martin,” he says, and feels warm at the approving, affectionate smile Martin gives him.

“All right,” Martin says. “Let’s go, then.”

Jon doesn’t let himself think about the files that really should be put back in their folders, or the statement he was supposed to read. He simply gets to his feet and walks around the desk. His entire body, now that he stands up, feels stiff and achy, almost flu-like. Maybe he _has_ been sitting there too long.

Martin’s hand comes up to rest at the nape of his neck, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth as he guides Jon out of the office and towards the side room. It’s very soothing, and Jon feels some of the buzzing anxiety of the last few days start to bleed away. Not enough that he feels he can sleep, but enough that he can maybe lie down for a while, as long as Martin’s there. His eyes do feel gritty and sore, so perhaps resting them a little is a good idea.

In the side room, Martin toes off his shoes and turns down the blankets on the camp bed.

“It’s not really big enough for two,” he says. “But we’ll manage.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls his jumper off over his head, then starts to undo his trousers.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not going to sleep in all my clothes, Jon. It’s not as if you’ve never seen me in my pants before.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“What if they do? I’ve got a t-shirt on, it’s not as if I’m indecent. _And_ we’ll be under the covers.”

The terribly English part of Jon is appalled by the possibility of indignity, but the tired, worn down part of him just wants to crawl into bed with his boyfriend without layers of uncomfortable decency. That part of him wins out, as it’s been doing more and more often these days, and Jon strips down to his undershirt and boxers, though his fingers are somewhat clumsier than usual. It’s been a long few days.

Martin is lying propped up on one elbow, up against the wall, and he pats the space next to him. Jon climbs onto the bed, which creaks faintly under their combined weight, turning so that his back is pressed against Martin’s chest. The camp bed is tiny, but Martin wraps both arms around Jon in a snug embrace, pulling Jon close against him.

Jon nestles into him to get comfortable, loving how they fit together so easily, Martin’s arms a reassuring weight around his body, Martin’s warmth surrounding and suffusing him. He can feel Martin exhaling softly against the back of his neck, stirring the hairs warmly, and he tries to match his breathing to the slow rise and fall of Martin’s chest. Feels some more of that stress seeping away, muscles he didn’t even realize were taut going loose and relaxed.

“Comfortable?” Martin asks after a few minutes.

“Yes, very,” Jon tells him, and hears the words dragging a little, as if his brain is can’t quite shape them fast enough. He wishes he could care about it, but as the tension leaves his body he can feel fatigue flooding in to replace it, heavy and implacable. Martin was right after all, about what he needed, but then Martin usually is. Jon’s eyelids feel leaden, impossible to keep open. And why would he, when he’s right where he’s supposed to be? He lets them close.

“Sorry,” he manages to say though the haze of exhaustion. Martin shifts against him, his hand splaying across Jon’s chest, over his heart, and presses a gentle kiss to the nape of his neck.

“What for?” Martin’s voice is scarcely more than a whisper, amused and affectionate. Jon wants to explain, that he’s sorry for worrying Martin once again, for making Martin have to take care of him, for not taking care of himself, because he knows Martin loves him, and Martin deserves someone at least minimally functional.

“Mmm,” is all that comes out of his mouth, though, and Jon gives up. He can tell Martin later. They can save the world later. He sinks deeper into Martin’s arms, and lets himself surrender.


	8. Eight legs and awful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon doesn't kill spiders anymore.

Jon used to kill spiders, without mercy or even much thought. He never _enjoyed_ it, it was simply the easiest way to get rid of them. Just practical. (The reflexive wriggle of remembered fear down his spine at the sight of all those legs isn’t something he acknowledges, even to himself.)

He doesn’t kill them anymore. He doesn’t like them any better than he ever did, and he’s _fairly_ sure they’re spying on him, but every time he sees one he thinks about Martin’s lectures about their place in the ecosystem. How earnestly he had defended their right to exist. How disappointed he was when Jon squashed one rather than letting him take it outside. _Waste of time,_ Jon had told him, _And don’t you have work to do?_

Martin isn’t here anymore to lecture him, but these days Jon _makes_ the time, regardless of how much work there is. Scoops the spiders up on whatever file folder he has to hand, or captures them in a cup for the big ones. Walks them up the stairs and ushers them out the front door of the Institute, with admonishments not to come back. He doesn’t know if they’re _actually_ part of the Web or just…spiders, but it doesn’t hurt to try a little tough negotiation.

One day he spends thirty minutes trying to catch a particularly large and fast specimen that keeps running under the furniture. He finally traps it in a mug and slides a folder underneath to transport it. He can actually _hear_ it tapping against the inside of the mug as it tries to escape, which is viscerally horrible, but he gets it outside without incident. Shakes it out of the cup and onto the pavement, and blocks its path with the folder as it immediately tries to run back inside.

“If it wasn’t for Martin I _definitely_ would have killed you,” he tells it. “I hope you bloody well appreciate him.”

The spider runs into a crack in the wall, and Jon sighs. Doing this doesn’t help anything, but he can’t let Martin down anymore. Even if Martin will never know it.

He closes the door, and heads downstairs to get back to work.


	9. Hidden ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon suggested that Jon could have a tattoo from university.

Daisy and Basira find out about it the night they all go out. They’re four drinks in, and of course by this point they are playing Never Have I Ever. (“Isn’t that a bit…studenty?” Jon asks. “Everyone on the force plays it, Jon,” Daisy tells him. “ It gets a bit wild with the sectioned officers,” Basira agrees.)

Neither of them have been able to make Jon take a drink yet, until Basira says:

“Never have I ever got a tattoo.” She looks smugly at Daisy, who takes a drink with a sigh.

“Not fair,” Daisy protests, “You already know.”

They both stare in shock when Jon takes a drink as well, looking resigned.

“Interesting…” says Basira.

“Well you know,” Jon explains awkwardly, “We were all young once.”

“Holding out on us, are you?” Daisy says, nudging him in the side. He winces a little, because it still feels weird, where the rib used to be, and Daisy gives him an apologetic look.

After that they keep insisting they need to see Jon’s tattoo, and Daisy shows the very start of hers (she has a vine winding from her hip down to her ankle, blossoming with ox-eyes). He refuses flat out until they’re on drink number six, at which point he gives a dramatic sigh and tugs open the neck of his shirt so they can peek down the back.

“Wow,” says Basira.

“Not what I would have thought,” says Daisy. “It’s not bad, though. From the way you were hiding it I was expecting barbed wire or something.”

*

Jon had to admit he’s starting to quite like having Helen around. She is constantly helpful, in her own idiosyncratic way, and is unerringly cheerful and supportive of her “Archives friends”. She does, however, have an unfortunate tendency to turn up without warning, and no concept of privacy. So when a door appears unexpectedly in Jon’s office one morning while he’s changing into a fresh shirt, he just sighs and makes himself decent as quickly as possible.

“You could at least knock,” he grumbles, and Helen tilts her head thoughtfully.

“If it’s important, then yes, I could do that,” she says, rapping on the yellow wood with impossible knuckles. And to her credit, she does. Unfortunately she also doesn’t seem to have grasped the concept of discretion. A few days later she is lounging around the Archives, looking bored while the rest of them are working, trying to get Melanie to pay attention to her.

“The Archivist has a rather large tattoo on his back,” she says, apropos of nothing, draping herself across Melanie’s desk. Melanie’s head lifts from the file she’s reviewing, and there is a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“Oh really?” she says. Helen nods enthusiastically.

“Yes,” she says, “It looks like - ”

“All right,” Jon interrupts loudly, “Thank you Helen, that’s quite enough.”

“I’m just telling Melanie about the - ”

“Yes okay,” he says, even louder. “I think we all have more important things to do.”

He sees Basira and Daisy share an amused glance, while Melanie smirks at him.

“You can tell me all about it later, Helen,” she says.

*

(At one point Jon recalls the time he’d been working at the Institute for a year or so, when Elias had walked up to him in the corridor, squinted at something vaguely over his shoulder, and then patted him on the back right where the tattoo sits. “We all make mistakes, Jonathan,” he had said sympathetically, and at the time Jon had just been worried he’d filed a report wrong. Looking back on it now, he can’t help wondering.)

*

Jon honestly isn’t even thinking about the tattoo when he lets Martin pull his shirt off over his head. He’s utterly caught up in the kisses they’ve been trading all evening, which had started out soft and tentative, and by now have devolved into breathless, soul-deep things that leave them both shaken. He is utterly enamored of Martin’s touch, hands moving careful over his torso, so delicate and reverent, and taking it skin to skin just seems _right_.

Martin doesn’t notice the tattoo at first, his hands feathering over Jon’s arms and shoulders, skimming his shoulder blades and brushing lightly over his rib cage. Jon doesn’t think anyone’s ever touched him so gently, with so much caring, and it is thoroughly intoxicating. Martin breaks his mouth away from Jon’s, kisses his cheek, his jaw, presses a soft kiss into his neck and then -

“Oh wow when did you get _that?”_

Jon is confused for half a second before he remembers the dreadful tattoo, a jolt of embarrassment going through him. Except the look Martin is giving him is only surprised, not amused. Martin leans over his shoulder and runs his fingers across the patch of dark ink, tracing its lines and whorls carefully.

“It was in university,” Jon explains self-consciously. “It was, well, it wasn’t one of my better decisions. Stupid, really.”

“It’s not stupid,” Martin tells him, his fingers still moving over the pattern. “It’s part of you, a decision you made. It means something about your life.”

Jon’s never really thought of it that way, but of course Martin would. Martin, who always treats people’s choices with kindness. Martin, who sometimes articulates complex subjects with such startling clarity that it takes Jon’s breath away. He is overcome with the sudden urge to wrap his arms around Martin, so he does, pressing close to his warmth.

“You’re really remarkable, do you know that?” he says. Martin seems surprised, but takes the compliment with pleasure, even if he doesn’t quite understand what it’s for.

“Oh well, thanks,” he says, his voice warm with affection. He kisses the side of Jon’s head, and then says slyly: “I don’t know what the neighbors will think, though, when they find out I have a boyfriend with a tattoo.”

Jon snorts with laughter, and pulls Martin even closer against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my imagination, Jon's tattoo is of the [Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 20](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Papyrus_Oxyrhynchus_20), which is both pretty, and appropriate for a pretentious history buff.


	10. Deep purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon would look really nice with colorful streaks in his hair.

As a child, Jon hated anyone to touch his hair. Hated to be fussed with at all, frowned and fidgeted whenever his grandmother would try to arrange the mop on his head into some semblance of order.

The wisdom that comes with age, Jon reflects as Martin’s fingers sift through his hair. He is lying with his head pillowed against Martin’s stomach, rising and falling slowly beneath his cheek with Martin’s breath. Martin’s fingertips scratch softly against his scalp, running strands of Jon’s hair between them, over and over. It is gentle and soothing and wonderfully sensual, in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with intimacy.

They were supposed to be watching a documentary, but Jon has long since given up any pretence of looking at the television. Instead he’s looking up at Martin through half closed eyes, just enjoying the sight of Martin’s face, relaxed and happy. Jon can’t recall the last time he felt so utterly content. A soft, low sound of pleasure rumbles up out of his throat, entirely without his volition.

Martin looks down at him, smiling.

“All right?” he asks. Jon doesn’t answer, just nods against the soft fabric of Martin’s jumper. Martin’s fingers tug very gently at a few strands of hair, playful.

“Have you ever thought of dying your hair?” Martin asks.

Jon considers. He hasn’t ever thought about it, because his appearance has never precisely been his top priority, and is less so than ever these days. He knows the gray is getting more prominent, though. And on top of everything else, the scars and the exhaustion and fear, it probably does make him look rather…haggard.

Martin, on the other hand, is eternally baby-faced and youthful, and Jon has seen people look at them a little askance from time to time. Wondering _precisely_ how much older Jon is, gauging whether their relationship is quite appropriate. It doesn’t bother Jon, and he hadn’t realized it bothered Martin. But of course if it does, Jon will do something about it. Because Martin is too good for him, and Jon would do anything to make him happy. He clears his throat.

“I - I could,” he says. “I know it’s a little - odd. I’m sure it must be annoying, having to constantly explain that your boyfriend isn’t _actually_ fifteen years older than you.”

He says it as a joke, but he has to admit it hurts a little. Not for his sake, but the thought that Martin might have been embarrassed by him at some point. Might have been uncomfortable on Jon’s behalf.

“I - what?” Martin’s voice is high and startled. His hand stills in Jon’s hair. Martin is looking at him like he’s said something shocking, and now Jon is thoroughly confused.

“I was talking about putting some blue in there, just for fun. Or purple, maybe. It would be a nice color for you. You think I want you to get rid of your _gray?”_

“Oh,” says Jon. Then: “I mean, most thirty year olds don’t look quite so middle aged. I know people - notice.”

“I don’t give two fucks what people notice,” Martin snaps, and Jon feels his heart skip a beat. Martin curses so rarely, there’s something rather thrilling about it when he does. He feels a bit foolish now, if he’s honest, because he should have known that Martin wouldn’t care. Martin is relentlessly protective of Jon, has stared people down on the street when he’s caught them gawking at Jon’s scars, but he’s never cared for his own sake. Never cared what people think of _them._

Martin’s hand comes down to rest on Jon’s chest, right over his heart, firm and grounding. In that moment, Jon loves him so fiercely that it hurts.

“I love you,” Martin tells him. “And I don’t care if every single person on earth thinks you’re a hundred years old. They don’t matter.”

“I love you too,” is all Jon can say in response, his breath catching in his throat. As always, Martin astounds him. Martin’s expression softens and he smiles, his fingers starting to move through Jon’s hair again.

“Good,” he says. Jon relaxes back against him, letting his eyelids drift shut with a soft sigh. After a few moments, opens his eyes again and fixes Martin with a skeptical look.

“Purple?” he says disbelievingly. “Really?”


	11. Couldn't drag me away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lottie prompted me to write the moment that Jon realizes he's in capital-L-love with Martin. How could I resist?

Jon never should have let Martin drag him to a wedding. It’s for some distant Blackwood cousin, who Martin admits he wouldn’t be able to identify if she weren’t wearing a white dress, but it seems that it’s going to be a large affair, so everyone in the extended family has been invited. Jon knows how much family means to Martin, and Martin had asked him along with such earnest shyness that he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

Besides, he supposes, attending boring social events is one of the responsibilities of a good boyfriend. And Jon wants to be a good boyfriend to Martin, who deserves far more happiness than Jon will likely ever be able to offer.

Jon owns precisely one suit that is appropriate for a wedding, in light beige. Fortunately it still fits properly, and hasn’t been eaten alive by moths since the last time he wore it years ago. He looks, he supposes, respectable enough as he adjusts the jacket in the mirror.

“You look gorgeous,” Martin says, walking up behind him. His own suit is blue with just a hint of green, which contrasts wonderfully against his fair skin and hair. He places both hands on Jon’s shoulders, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

“Oh, well,” Jon mumbles, flushing. Martin laughs.

“Come on,” he says, “We’re going to be late.”

The ceremony itself is fine, standard C of E fare with the usual readings about love being patient and kind and all that nonsense. Martin nudges Jon discreetly to stand and sit at the appropriate times, and they get through it easily enough. It’s at the drinks reception afterwards that the ordeal begins, because apparently none of Martin’s family have seen him in years, and every single one of them - particularly the older female relatives - absolutely _has_ to meet Jon.

Jon nods and smiles through endless questions about how they met (at work) and what he does (same as Martin) and what his ambitions are (he doesn’t say saving the world). He shake dozens of hands and gets his cheek pinched by an octogenarian who tells Martin in an extremely loud whisper that _this one needs feeding up. _Martin laughs nervously and steers Jon away.

Dinner is almost equally painful, seated at a table with half a dozen people he doesn’t know, awkward small talk about how everyone knows the bride and groom, and how far they’ve traveled to be here. Jon directs his eyes to his plate, letting Martin take the social reins. He’s better at it, and he doesn’t mind, knows that events like this can be overwhelming for Jon at times. Halfway through the starter course, Martin’s hand squeezes his leg briefly, warm and reassuring, and does so several more times through the length of the meal.

The speeches come during dessert. It’s not traditional, but it does mean that the crowd are a lot more receptive, being full of food and alcohol as they are. Jon’s had a couple of glasses of wine himself, which is making the whole affair a bit more tolerable. The bride’s father stands up first, tells some long rambling stories and ends up with a toast to the couple and a hug from his daughter. The best man and then the maid of honor offer a selection of terrible jokes and bawdy anecdotes.

The bride gives a short, tearful thanks to all the family and friends that have come together to help them celebrate this happiest of days, tells her new husband how much she loves him with her voice cracking. And then the groom stands up.

“I used to think falling in love was like in films,” he says. “That it would be a thunderbolt out of the sky one day, and I’d just suddenly be in love. That’s just in films, though. Really, love creeps up on you. You meet someone, and you like them, and you want to get to know them more. You like being around them. You feel happy every time you think about them. After a while, you start to want to spend all your time around them.”

He pauses for a moment to collect himself, reaches a hand down to rest it on his wife’s shoulder, looking adoringly down at her as she looks adoringly up at him. He clears his throat and continues.

“You - you think it wouldn’t be so bad if you spent all your time together for the rest of your lives. It gets to the point that you can’t imagine what your life would be like without them in it. You don’t _want_ to imagine it. What point did you fall in love with them? You can’t say. If someone asked you to pinpoint that thunderbolt moment, you couldn’t, not on your life. But you love them. You know it, sure as anything. It’s not like the films. It’s better.”

He sits down again as the guests clap and toast, and Jon feels a lump rising in his throat. His head is swimming, and not from the wine. Martin’s hand squeezes his leg again, and Jon looks over at him. He is, he knows in that moment, in love with Martin Blackwood. He has no idea when or how it happened, but it’s undeniable. The realization feels like he’s been hit in the chest with a hammer, and he gives a little breathy laugh. How did he not realize this before? How could he not _know? _Martin turns to him with a quizzical look.

“Everything all right?” he asks, and Jon can only nod.

After dinner the couple has their first dance to the strains of some 80s power ballad and then Jon clings to a table near the wall as the tipsy guests take to the floor. Dancing is not something he does. Martin stays near him, chatting to various family members and strangers he’s instantly befriended, making occasional attempts to include Jon in the conversation but not forcing him. Under normal circumstances, Jon would make more of an effort for Martin, but right now he’s still too stunned by his earlier revelation to be any level of social.

He can’t stop _looking_ at Martin. It’s still Martin, looking the same as he always does, though rather dashing in his suit. But Jon just…can’t stop staring. _I love him_, he thinks. Then, daringly, _I love you,_ and his heart races ridiculously at the thought.

After several hours the night starts to wind down, and the songs get slower as the rowdier guests begin to disperse. A crooning Motown number ends, and the next song starts up with a jangling guitar that Jon recognizes as the opening chords of _Wild Horses. _It is, he knows, one of Martin’s favorite songs. He sees Martin glance very slightly in his direction. Recognizes his expression as the one Martin wears when he’s trying not to get his hopes up about something. Right now, it is too much for Jon to bear.

He stands up, his heart pounding, and holds out a hand to Martin.

“May I?” he asks. Martin stares at him in astonishment for about two seconds, and then his face breaks into a smile of such absolute happiness it takes Jon’s breath away.

“Yeah,” Martin says, sounding a little stunned, and takes his hand.

Jon leads the way out onto the floor, his chest tight and his hands trembling. He has never in his life danced in front of other people, and certainly not _with_ someone. He has no idea how to go about it. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, as he pulls Martin into his arms, feels Martin’s arms go around him in return, their bodies pressing close together among the other couples on the dance floor. Neither of them make any real pretense at it, just sway together to the rhythm, Jon’s head tucked against Martin’s shoulder, Martin’s cheek pressed to the top of his head. Jon’s mouth is dry, his heart racing. He licks his lips.

“Martin,” he says, “I, uh, there’s - there’s something I need to tell you.”

Martin pulls back a little to look him in the eyes, still moving them gently to the music. He doesn’t say anything, just waits patiently for Jon to get through what he’s trying to say. Jon takes a deep breath.

“I love you,” he says. Martin’s eyes go very wide, and terribly vulnerable, aching with emotion.

“Oh,” he says softly. Then: “I love you too. _God._ I love you, Jon.“

“Oh,” Jon says back to him. He doesn’t get to say any more as Martin leans down to kiss him, sweet and slow. Jon curls his hands in the back of Martin’s waistcoat, kissing him back with fierce joy. This man that he loves.

The song comes to an end, piano and guitar fading out with a final flourish. Neither of them notice.


	12. Sticky rice and silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Web!Lonely!Martin and Web!Beholding!Jon. This one features amazing art by the very talented [Hiri](https://hiridraws.tumblr.com/)!

At quarter past seven Jon’s phone chimes.

_Are you coming home soon?_

Jon sets it on his desk, unlocked. He’ll reply in just a moment, once he’s finished reading this section about sixteenth century Angolan nkondi sculptures.

A few minutes later he feels the tug, almost physical at the back of his skull, gentle but insistent. Jon looks down at his phone and realizes with a guilty start that it’s nearly eight. He snatches it up and replies to the text.

_Sorry, on my way. Should I get dinner?_

The response comes almost immediately.

_You can make it up to me with red curry._

Jon is putting on his jacket when the phone chimes again.

_And mango sticky rice. :)_

*

He checks on Elias as he’s leaving. Reaches out along threads that are delicate as a whisper, strong as steel, strands that stretch and twist all the way from Jon’s mind to Elias’. Lets his thoughts crawl across the surface of Elias’ brain, carefully, checking everything is as it should be.

Elias is in his Kensington townhouse, reviewing some mundane paperwork. He is content after a good meal and a glass of fine wine, and considering nothing more menacing than next quarter’s budget.

It’s an intimate thing, feeling Elias’ mind pliant beneath his own. Knowing how easily Jon could form and mold his thoughts, his behaviors. He tries not to do it more than is necessary, because he doesn’t want to rouse Elias’ suspicion. A light touch is best.

As far is Elias knows, his plans for the Watcher’s Crown are advancing smoothly and under his control. The slow headway is nothing to be concerned about. Nothing at all. He is entirely unaware that his progress is circular, contrived to never bring his ritual to fruition. He may labor happily at it for decades, under the Web’s deft care.

And in the meantime, he continues with his paperwork.

_Well done, _Jon thinks, and lets his own satisfaction flow along the connection between them, lets it soak into Elias’ hindbrain. He likes to reinforce good behavior.

*

He’s late heading home, so of course the journey can’t go smoothly.

The creature that stalks towards him on the Tube was certainly human once, but the Hunt has sharpened its teeth and bowed its bones until, even hunched in a heavy coat, it’s hard to mistake for a person. Its eyes gleam under its hood. It looks hungry.

Jon sighs. This sort of thing isn’t precisely an unusual occurrence, but he was hoping for a quiet night.

There’s about ten minutes before his stop. He considers, and then pins the creature with a stare.

“Why don’t you tell me,” he says, and feels the compulsion flowing off his tongue and into its brain. “What happened to you?”

The creature tells him, its words tearing out past vocal cords that twist them into snarls. It’s crying, Jon thinks, when he gets up to leave. A little twinge of guilt snags at him, beneath the Archivist’s gratification.

“You should stay onboard to the end of the line,” he suggests. “And then walk home.”

*

Sometimes, Jon doesn’t feel good about what he’s become. A monster twice over. He remembers when he feared the Web more than any other power, horrified by its stripping away of autonomy.

And now? Well, things change. The Web is control, yes, but not only of other people. After years of fear and uncertainty, it’s good to feel in command of himself. To feel sure, to feel purpose in the knowledge he restlessly seeks.

Everything the Eye _knows_, the Web can _use_.

*

He stops at the Thai place near home, picks up red curry and pad woon sen for himself, and a large portion of the mango sticky rice. On a whim he adds fried tofu to the order, because he knows Martin likes it.

The smell of the food is mouthwatering on the walk home. He feels a gentle tug again as he mounts the stairs to their flat, a greeting this time. He pushes open the door, and finds himself with an armful of enthusiastic boyfriend, wrapping arms around him and kissing his cheek.

“Careful of the food!” he warns, and sets the bag down on the counter so he can kiss Martin properly. When they pull apart, Martin is beaming at him like the sun.

“Glad you finally decided to come home,” he says.

*

People find Jon off putting or frightening, more than ever these days, with his scars and his too keen eyes. Martin, though, they find comforting. Safe and familiar. It’s a deliberate choice, Jon knows. Martin doesn’t want people to be afraid of him, so they aren’t.

The frightened people who come to the Archives don’t see Jon, for the most part. They see Martin, who offers tea and kindness, and gentle encouragement to tell their story.

Most of them haven’t had a true supernatural encounter, are suffering from mental health issues, or simply lonely or overwhelmed. Martin lends an ear, and offers friendly advice to seek help or support, and _yes_, they invariably think, _that’s a really good idea._ Martin is such a kind person, it would be easy for Jon to forget that he’s by far the more ruthless of the pair of them.

He never does, though. All it takes is remembering the look on Peter Lukas’ face as the threads closed around his throat. But it’s not as if he didn’t deserve it, for the harm he did Martin alone. Never mind all the other evils of his long, cruel life.

The scars of Lukas’ presence linger. There are still times when Martin goes cold and quiet. When Jon touches his shoulder, and Martin gives him a look of such detached distance that it sends a chill down Jon’s spine. He has to pull tight on the threads that bind them, then. Has to draw Martin back to him, remind him what they are to each other, assure him he’s not supposed to be alone.

It’s not often, thankfully. And Martin is so much happier these days. They both are, and though Jon can’t dismiss the possibility that they’ve simply been persuaded that they’re happy, well -

If you can’t tell, does it really matter?

*

Martin gets the plates and cutlery while Jon unpacks the food. He allows Jon to hand feed him a piece of fried tofu, making small _mmm_ sounds of pleasure as he chews. Uncorks a bottle of white wine and pours two glasses.

“Sorry I was so late,” Jon says.

He’s really been making more of an effort to leave work on time. He feels uneasy on days like this, when Martin goes home before him. It’s not that Martin can’t take care of himself _(the cords of Peter’s throat straining against the silk)_ but still. It’s safer when they’re together.

“Like I said, this makes up for it,” Martin grins, pointing a fork at his red curry. “And I know you were busy today. It’s fine.”

Jon feels that little tug against his consciousness once more, this time playful and reassuring. _It’s all right, we’re together, it’s fine. _He gives a tug back,_ I love you_, and Martin looks at him with such affection that Jon’s heart stutters.

“I love you too,” Martin says, and _knowing_ it to his core, _feeling_ it quiver between them, Jon has no doubts.

* * *


	13. Stay with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the GiveMartinHugs2k19 challenge!

Peter’s arms around him are cold as fog, as ice, as indifference. Martin shudders in their grasp, feeling the chill spread from Peter’s broad chest into his. It feels like all his organs are going numb. Like everything is. The beat of his heart is sluggish, like it’s pumping ice water through his veins instead of blood.

“This is the final step, Martin,” Peter says against his ear. Despite his arms around Martin, his voice sounds very far away. “Embrace Forsaken. You’ll always be alone, and you’ll never care.”

And doesn’t that sound wonderful: not caring, not _feeling_, the invulnerability of detachment. Stepping away from everything that’s hurt him. Everything that’s still hurting him, through the anesthetic cold, the sharpest ache of all _(you’ll never see him again)._

“I’ll never see him again,” Martin mumbles, his lips numb, his tongue thick in his mouth. His thoughts are glacial, but that cuts through like a knife. 

“But he’ll be safe,” Peter says from a great distance. Martin can’t feel Peter’s arms around him anymore, it just feels like being wrapped in winter fog, damp and heavy and shivering. Peter’s voice is like an echo of a person long gone.

“Do you really want to see him? It’s easier this way, you said it yourself. You’ll know he’s safe, and you’ll never have to worry about being hurt or disappointed.”

_Do I really want to see Jon?_ Martin’s memory draws out sad, tired eyes, a mouth pulled tight with determination, forehead creased with constant worry. Jon’s voice, soft and exhausted: _I’m so sorry. _He thinks about never seeing Jon again, neveragain hearing his voice.

“You won’t miss him.”

_I miss you._

“After a while, you won’t remember you ever wanted to see him.”

_It was good to see you._

There is a tight, hot ache in Martin’s chest, and he recognizes the sensation of tears searing a trail down his numb cheeks. He whimpers, his heart thudding painfully, indignantly, against his rib cage.

“I can’t,” he gasps. “I can’t.”

Painful warmth is racing through the numb heart of him, chasing out the cold, pins and needles scoring his skin. Through his tears, he can see the fog thinning, the outlines of Elias’ office coming back into view. Peter’s voice is a fading, reproachful whisper:

“You’ll never save him like this, Martin.”

Martin sinks into a chair, shaking and weak as sensation flows painfully back through his limbs. It hurts, feeling, but he supposes he doesn’t have much choice.

*

Annabelle Cane has spindly arms with long fingers, and when they wrap around Martin it feels like there are too many of them, with too many joints. She doesn’t open her mouth, but Martin feels the silk of her thoughts sliding against his, tugging at his individual neurons in a way that registers as words.

<<You’ve never been able to control anything, and that makes you afraid.>>

Martin nods against her bony shoulder, feels the sticky mass of web that makes up her skull pressing into his hair. Feels the sensation of tiny legs touching his face tentatively, eager to explore. It sends an unpleasant feeling squirming up his spine, but he doesn’t think it’s exactly fear.

<<You want to protect what you love.>>

“I _need_ to. I can’t - I can’t see him dead again.” Martin squeezes his eyes shut, feels her long, thin fingers stroking through his hair, leaving strands of silk in their wake.

<<You can only protect what is in your control.>>

Martin feels his own hands move jerkily, against his volition, up onto Annabelle’s back. A parody of an embrace. He cannot see the strings but he feels them pull tight around him, cutting his breath short. He feels what might be fingers or spider legs crawling over his face, his neck, down into his collar. He shudders.

“I don’t want to _control_ him,” he manages to say past the web that’s stitching his lips together. “I just want him to be safe.”

<<If you belong to us you can keep him safe and secure and loved. And he will belong to us as well. He won’t even mind, after a while.>>

Martin thinks of Jon being safe, not constantly flinging himself into danger. Letting Martin take care of him without being so bloody stubborn all the time. Thinks of Jon pliant, obedient, and that thought tugs at something inside him, something possessive and many-legged. In the next instant he is viscerally disgusted at the idea, shaken and sick at himself for letting it crawl through his skull.

It’s difficult to move, but Martin manages to shake his head where it’s bound against Annabelle’s shoulder. He feels the threads loosening, just a little. Pulls sharply against them, and hears the ragged tearing of silk as they part. He lifts his head to look into Annabelle Cane’s black, unblinking eyes.

“I won’t do that to him,” he tells her.

<<Then you will not be able to save him.>>

_And you are no use to us, _she doesn’t add, but her arms release him and the threads holding him fall away. His legs give way and he drops limply to the floor as she withdraws. It takes a while, but in time he remembers how to carry his own weight.

*

Jonathan Sims claims to be a monster, but his arms around Martin feel entirely, beautifully human. His hands grip Martin’s back with a strength born of determination, a stubborn ferocity so very _Jon_ that Martin feels dizzy with it. His thin frame is pressed warm and alive against Martin, and if Martin’s first thought is that he hasn’t been eating properly, well, old habits die hard.

“You’re here,” Jon says, sounding as if he hardly believes it.

Martin dares to rest his own hands on Jon’s back, feeling his rib cage expand and contract as he breathes. Jon makes a soft sound against his shoulder as Martin’s arms go around him, and Martin could cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hearing the catch in his own voice.

“What on earth for?” Jon’s voice is muffled against his jumper, but the incredulous tone is still so familiar that it makes Martin’s heart ache.

“I wanted to keep you safe. And I couldn’t. I just - I _couldn’t.”_

“Martin…” Jon sounds exasperated, but there’s something gentle in his voice as well. “You can’t keep me safe - nothing can keep any of us safe.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Martin pleads, because it seems like he can’t do anything. All he’s ever done is make the tea and watch people die, and the one time he tried to really _do_ something, he failed. Too afraid to give himself up, too weak to take control.

Jon’s arms get tighter around him, and he pushes his face into Martin’s neck. Presses a hard kiss there like a declaration.

“Just stay with me,” he says. “That’s all I need. Please, Martin.”

Martin can’t think, can’t know anything but the warmth of Jon against him, the tenacious strength of Jon’s arms holding him close. Turns his head to press a kiss to Jon’s graying hair, his cheek, their noses bumping together as their lips brush, trembling and fierce.

“Stay with me,” Jon repeats, soft as a breath, against his mouth. Kisses him again.

“Yes,” Martin chokes past the lump in his throat, because of course he will. He may not be able to keep Jon safe, but he’ll stay, as long as he possibly can. As long as he lives. It won’t be enough, he knows, with the horrors around them and the monsters within. But at least it will be theirs.


	14. A galaxy of moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I still have a lot of feelings about Martin's poems. And about Jon's feelings about Martin's poems.

Jon remembers Martin’s poems.

He wouldn’t have, a year ago, but nothing is as it was a year ago. Jon is far from what he was, a thing of eyes and questions and hunger, and the thing that he is now remembers Martin’s poems.

Not just the ones he read before, the rumpled, water spotted pages that are still folded up in his bottom desk drawer._ (Almost affecting, _he recalls with a wince.) Jon remembers all of the poems, every one Martin’s ever written, bright, crystallized moments of his life, like stars frozen in the past.

Jon can reach for any of those pinpoints of light: clumsy, painstaking rhymes captured in a school notebook, abstractions of anger and grief and loneliness, experiments in haiku and free verse. He knows them all, the words skipping on the tip of his tongue when he shuts his eyes.

He doesn’t speak them; they aren’t his to say.

In more recent years, the poems are haunted by someone dark eyed and distant. Someone with sharp angles and sharper words, and beneath it all a deep tenderness towards the people around him, those harmed by the world. Jon colors at those poems. He’s past the point of denial, but he’s never imagined himself in such romantic terms. He doesn’t know that anyone ever should have, but then Martin was always too kind to him.

(God, what must Martin think of the person in his poems now, with what he knows? With what Jon’s done?)

There are no new poems, not since before Jon woke up. Their absence is as stark as Martin’s own, as cold and aching. Hollow as gaps between the stars.

Jon tries to imagine the poems Martin might yet write. Not now, but in some hopeful dream of a future, beyond the fear and loneliness and the terrible distance between them. What Martin might -

It’s useless. Jon can know, can remember every word Martin’s written, but it doesn’t give him insight to Martin’s heart. Doesn’t tell him what stars Martin might add to his galaxy of moments, in that dimly imagined future.

Jon’s never had any poetry in him, not a word of his own, to capture the ebb and flow of his heart. So he shuts his eyes, and feels Martin’s words sit on the tip of his tongue, and tries to pretend it’s enough.


	15. It helps if we're touching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we were all speculating what would happen after the Lonely, I never imagined the cows.

When there is _nothing _for so long, everything is overwhelming. Martin feels the whoosh of his breath in his lungs, the rough stone of the old prison gritting under his hands. It feels _real_, in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again. 

_Jon_, he thinks. 

Jon was with him, at the end. They had stood together, and Jon’s hand had curled shyly around his. _It helps, if we’re touching,_ he explained, and Martin’s face heats with the remembered warmth of his voice.

_I love you,_ Jon had told him, his words trembling but clear, _That’s why this works. I can pull myself out, and I think I can pull you out too._

_I love you,_ Martin had blurted in reply, and Jon had looked so wonderfully startled that Martin wanted to kiss him. He hadn’t, of course, there was no time, there was never any time, but Jon’s hand had squeezed his tighter, and he smiled. 

_Then we can pull each other out._

Martin shuts his eyes, a lump rising in his throat, staggered by the wave of emotion that sweeps over him. When there is nothing for so long, _everything _is overwhelming. He shakes himself out of it and looks anxiously around.

Jon is lying several yards away, a small, crumpled figure on the floor. Elias - _Jonah Magnus, _god, this just keeps getting weirder - is crouched beside him on one knee. Martin’s heart leaps in his chest and he scrambles over there, barely getting off his hands and knees before he’s down at Jon’s side again. 

“…was it like?” he hears Elias say, soft and intent, and Jon is blinking up at him, eyes unfocused, and his voice is scarcely more than a hoarse whisper when he says:

“It was…desolate, and magnificent.”

Jon’s eyes lock with Elias’ and for an instant, Martin feels like he’s interrupting something private, some transcendent connection he can’t even _see._ But then Jon’s eyes flicker across to his, and Jon gives a smile that’s only for him, Elias forgotten. 

“Martin…” he rasps, and Martin’s heart lurches again at the softness in his voice. 

“I’m here,” he says, “Jon, I’m here.”

He helps Jon to sit up, carefully, conscious of Jon’s thinness, the fragility of his body. Martin chews his lip with worry, and Jon smiles at him again, tired and worn. His hand reaches for Martin’s, just like it did in the Lonely, and Jon pulls his hand up to press a careful kiss to his knuckles. 

“I never doubted you for a second,” Jon tells him, and Martin feels a surge of warmth, love and pride and relief. They’re here, they’re both _here_, and it’s more than he could possibly have hoped. 

“This is all very sweet,” Elias drawls, and Martin jumps. He’d almost forgotten about the man “But perhaps we should leave here, hmm?”

“You want us to go with _you?”_ Martin stares disbelievingly. “Why on earth would we do that? In fact, now that Peter’s gone, why shouldn’t I stab your body, _Jonah? _Put an end to all this?”

“Please, Martin,” he says with a wince, “Call me Elias. I’ve rather got used to the name. As to why you shouldn’t kill my…body, well, there’s still the fact that you don’t know what will happen to everyone at the Institute. And the fact that you won’t be able to find your way back without me. Jon is in no condition for navigating the tunnels at present.”

Martin opens his mouth to argue, but Jon’s hand presses gently to his cheek. 

“He’s right, Martin,” he says wearily. “Let’s get back to the Archives first. Then we can worry about him.”

The journey back through the tunnels is slow and arduous. Martin doesn’t remember it taking so long on the way there, but he hadn’t been cold and drained from the Lonely then. And he’d spent most of the walk with his mind racing, flitting between fear and longing and frantic calculations of what Peter might be up to. All of it wrong, of course. But it had passed the time quickly. On the return, Martin is aware only of Jon’s slight weight pressed against his side, trembling. The memory of Jon’s voice that keeps replaying in his head,_ I love you, that’s why this works. I love you. I love you._ Time drags by as he thinks about how desperately he wants the two of them to be somewhere alone, and safe, so they can talk. 

That isn’t possible with Jonah “Call-Me-Elias” Magnus strolling just ahead of them. He’s mercifully quiet for the most part, at least, though every so often he does point out some feature of architecture or geography that makes Martin want to strangle him. Jon must feel him tense, because at a few particularly irritating moments, he gently squeezes Martin’s arm with his fingers. 

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, and Martin feels himself relax minutely. At last the tunnels begin to look familiar, and then they are climbing through the trapdoor into the Archives, a scene of scattered papers and overturned furniture, blood spatters on the walls. 

“The…not Sasha…” Jon rasps, slumping into a chair, and Martin feels a stab of grief in his chest. He hates Peter for that, if nothing else. 

“And hunters as well, if I’m not mistaken,” Elias notes, glancing around. 

“Well there’s nobody here now,” says Martin. “And we’re out of the tunnels, so _talk.”_

Elias opens his mouth, and three uniformed police officers burst through the door.

As it turns out, the Institute has been fully evacuated and cordoned off. The police had become rather alarmed at the sound of footsteps in the Archives, not expecting anyone to be walking around down here. Elias explains glibly that they had hidden in the tunnels at the sounds of gunfire, and had become lost for a time. Martin spends the whole exchange wondering why they haven’t arrested the bastard yet, but they seem to pay him no mind whatsoever.

“You know he escaped from prison today, right?” he tells one of the officers. She frowns with concern and steps away to talk into her radio for a few moments, then shrugs.

“HQ says he was released. All charges dropped.” 

Martin gives up, and turns back to Jon, who’s waving off the medic trying to insert an IV into his arm. 

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, “No, these are old scars - Martin, tell him.”

“They are,” Martin confirms. “And he won’t go to the hospital, no point trying. I’ll take care of him.”

The medic gives up and leaves them alone, and Jon goes back to texting Basira. She’s okay, he tells Martin, relieved, but she’s gone to stay with her parents for a few days. There’s been no sign of Daisy since the attack, and Martin hears the worry in his voice as he says it. Martin doesn’t really know Daisy, has barely spoken to her since she came back from the Buried, but he already knows he’ll do anything he can to help someone that Jon cares for so much. 

After a little more prevarication from Elias, they’re given permission to leave. Jon seems a little less weak now, though Martin is glad to see him grab a stack of statement files off Basira’s desk as they pass. He could use them.

They pass the police cordon, and Elias turns to the two of them, hands tucked into the pockets of his expensive coat. 

“Well,” he says, “This has been an interesting day. Well done to you both.”

“That’s it?” Martin demands. “After all that, just…well done?”

“I don’t know that there’s much more to say at this juncture, Martin. I imagine it will be a week or two before the Institute is re-opened, so consider this a paid holiday.” 

“I won’t do it, you know,” Jon says, frowning. “I know you think you’re close, and I don’t know precisely what the Watcher’s Crown is, yet, but you can’t do it without me. And I _won’t.”_

“How unfortunate for me, then,” Elias says cheerfully. “I’ll expect to see you both back at work in a couple of weeks.”

He turns on his heel and is gone without another word. Martin lets out an explosive breath. 

“Bloody hell.” 

“Yes,” says Jon, “I think that about sums it up.” 

Martin sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. There’s so much they need to figure out, to plan and research and do and - 

He stops himself short. He’s standing on the street with Jon, after all this time apart, after Jon said that he _loved _him. Frankly, Jonah Magnus and the Watcher’s Crown and the rest of the world can go to hell for a little while.

“So, do you…want to get something to eat, or…”

Jon gives him a smile that’s painfully shy this time, and Martin’s heart beats hard in his chest. 

“That would be nice,” he says. “Could we get takeaway, though? I uh, I need to - ” He gestures with the stack of folders in his arms.

“Oh, right! Of course, absolutely. Do you…want to come to mine, then? There’s a great Thai place just down the street from me?”

“Yeah - that sounds great!” Jon’s face lights up, and Martin could cry at the simple joy of being here, now, with him. Daring, he slips an arm around Jon’s shoulders, half to support him, and half just to pull him close. Jon comes willingly, presses warm against him, his bundle of folders still clutched in his arms. 

Martin guides them down the street to the Tube station, and they wait on the platform with the earth thrumming under their shoes, evening commuters coming and going around them. It’s all very ordinary, and Martin thinks about how he must look to the people around them: a tall, unwieldy man with his tired looking boyfriend nestled against him, half dozing on his feet as they wait to go home. He likes that thought. 

“Jon,” he says after a few minutes.

“Hmm?”

“What you said earlier, that you never doubted me - did you mean that?”

Jon looks up at him, surprised. 

“Of course.”

“Why not?” Martin asks, and he doesn’t understand why the answer is so desperately important to him now, except that he’s not sure anyone’s ever trusted him so entirely in his life. And he’s not sure he deserves it. He was so close to being gone, at the end. 

Jon’s expression is solemn when he reaches his hand around the back of Martin’s neck and pulls him down. Their lips brush, very gently, and then Jon’s eyes are intent on his, his fingers still curled into the hair at the base of Martin’s skull. 

“Because you’re Martin Blackwood,” he says. “And I trust in that.”


	16. Fear of loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally starting to come to terms with 160 enough to write apocalypse boyfriends.

The landscape of fear is constantly changing: sucking mud gives way to tangles of cobwebs gives way to thickets of shining blades gives way to bewildering, fractal geometry. Martin keeps a fire extinguisher slung over his back and an axe on his hip; Jon has a knife for when his voice isn’t vicious enough. They armor themselves in thick layers and heavy boots, to keep out the worms and stamp down the flames. They stay close together.

It’s not _normal_, but they’re getting used to it. It’s okay. They’re okay.

They don’t see fog until the fifth day, and then it rolls in so gradually, so insidiously. By the time Jon notices it, it’s wreathing around their legs, coiling up towards their throats. He looks at Martin, who looks pale.

“Let’s move quickly,” Jon suggests, “Get out of this.”

Martin nods silently, his jaw tight. The gray mist clings to him, damp and obscuring. It’s difficult to see his expression.

“Hold onto me,” says Jon, and reaches out his hand to grasp for Martin’s, only dimly visible now.

He takes hold of nothing.

Jon spins in a circle, staring into the fog that now surrounds him thickly. This can’t be happening. Not again. Not this.

“Martin!” he shouts. His voice is oddly muffled. He stares around him. There’s a hunched shape in the fog, not far away, and Jon runs towards it, his heart racing.

“Martin!” he cries, relieved, but the shape when it comes into view is the corner pillar of a crumbled stone wall. Jon turns again, frantic, and darts back in the direction he came. What if Martin was right there and Jon ran past him?

Jon feels himself start to panic, and pushes it down. He takes a breath, tries to _know_ where Martin is, but there’s too much, there’s always too much these days, too much terror and knowledge pouring through every crack he allows to split open in his mind. It’s useless.

He shouts Martin’s name, again and again, stumbling blindly through the fog. The silence is deafening in response. All he can hear is his own voice cracking hoarsely, the dull thud of his feet, the hammering of his heart. He can’t lose Martin, not like this, not to the Lonely, he can’t he can’t he -

“Jon!”

Martin’s fingers close around his wrist. His hand is _warm_. Jon turns and falls against him, clings to him. His legs give way and he sags to the ground. Martin follows him.

“I thought I lost you, the fog was everywhere and I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t _see_ you and I thought I’d _lost_ you - ” Jon can hear himself babbling but can’t make it stop, his heart still pounding frantically, and Martin’s arms go around him, his hands stroking over Jon’s spine. He’s warm. He’s so warm.

“It’s okay, Jon, we were only in there a couple of minutes. Look, it’s already clearing.”

“No, no, Martin, _I thought I lost you_, and it’s my fault, just like last time my _encounter with the Lonely_, christ, what if I didn’t find you? I couldn’t - I can’t do this without you.”

“Oh,” says Martin, and his voice is thick with emotion. “Oh. Jon, it’s - you didn’t lose me. I promise. You didn’t lose me then, and you won’t. You won’t.”

They stay there for a little while, curled together as the fog dissipates around them, but soon they have to move on, before the next horror finds them. Martin offers Jon his hand as they get to his feet, and doesn’t let go as they start walking.


	17. After everything, cows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I anxious about season 5 and writing future fix-it fic to cope? Maybe.

It’s still dark when Martin wakes. He slides out of bed carefully and pads downstairs, avoiding the step that always creaks. The banked embers in the fireplace take the edge off the chill in the kitchen, but it’s going to be cold outside. He pulls his parka on over his pajamas and slips his socked feet into boots; grabs the bucket from the corner and the torch from the hallway table on his way out.

Morning mist is rolling low to the ground when Martin walks outside. He was right; it’s cold, and damp too, sending a shiver across his shoulders. He tucks the hand that isn’t holding the torch into his sleeve. He never used to feel the cold, when he was younger, but ever since he escaped the Lonely winter bites him to the bone. He’s glad of it: it reminds him of what he didn’t lose.

A gentle chorus of lowing greets him as he rounds the corner to the back of the house. The girls are standing together in their fold, their breath steaming in the light of his torch. They toss their heads as he approaches, and Alice scrapes at the straw with an impatient hoof. They know his arrival means food.

“Morning, ladies,” he greets them over his shoulder as he opens the feed bin, scooping oats into the bucket to join the kitchen scraps: leafy vegetable tops and peelings, a couple of slices of stale bread broken up. When it’s full, he hefts it across to the trough with what he likes to think of as a manful grunt of exertion. The girls come out of their shelter then; they know better than to crowd him, but they just about wait until he’s emptied the bucket to shove past and bury their noses in the trough.

“No table manners at all,” Martin despairs, patting The Tsarina on the shoulder. “I should turn you all into burgers.” She ignores him entirely, her royal status forgotten as she munches on potato peels.

Martin stays with them for a few minutes, making sure everyone gets their share of the treat. They can easily feed themselves on grazing, even through the winter, but the extra feed is a good supplement for them. He scratches Kochanie’s neck, and she lifts her head to butt her broad nose against his chest; she’s the smallest and shyest of the girls, and Martin has a particular soft spot for her.

Once the food has disappeared, Martin gives them a few final fond pats and leaves them to their morning.

Back in the kitchen he stirs up the fire and feeds it with coals and extra kindling, then boils the kettle for tea and makes himself a cup. They’re almost out of milk. He’ll have to get more next time they’re in the village, which of course means hearing the usual quip from Mrs. Baines, _three coos at home and still buying your milk from the shops, eh? _The fact that they didn’t intend the girls for milk or meat took a while to sink in locally, especially with some of the farmers who are very adamant that cows aren’t pets. Over time, though, people have accepted it as just another oddity of That English Couple; a bit peculiar, but ultimately harmless.

The sun is rising by the time Martin makes more tea, two cups this time, one with so much sugar the spoon almost stands up in it. He avoids the creaky step again on his way upstairs, and when he nudges open the bedroom door, Jon is still a motionless lump under the duvet, only his hair visible from beneath the covers. He sets the mugs down on the bedside cabinet and settles onto the edge of the mattress. Jon makes a low, disgruntled sound as the mattress dips, and Martin smiles. He tugs down the edge of the duvet to reveal Jon’s face, eyes still closed but a little frown between his brows.

“Time to wake up, sweetheart,” he says gently, sifting his fingers into Jon’s hair. Jon’s eyes flutter open, dark and hazy, and a small smile curves his mouth.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is a hoarse whisper of a thing these days, far from the deep, rich timbre that had first sent shivers up Martin’s spine. He doesn’t miss it, though he knows Jon is sometimes self-conscious of how he sounds. Jon’s voice is a mark of all he’s gone through and given up and survived, and Martin loves it, soft and scratchy and _Jon_.

(He dreams, sometimes, about the rolling cadence of the Archivist’s voice as he spoke the doors of fear closed, spoke the world back to itself. Those nights, Jon doesn’t mind when Martin wakes him, asks him to say something - _anything_ \- to prove that it all really happened. That they’re really okay.)

“I brought tea,” Martin tells him, and Jon shuffles until he’s sitting up against the pillows. He takes the mug Martin hands him, making a pleased little sound at the first sip. Then his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“What are you doing up so early? Did you feed the girls?”

“I was awake anyway,” Martin shrugs. “It’s no bother. And you needed the sleep.”

(Jon has dreams as well, days at a time where horror clutches at his sleeping mind, shakes him awake, hollow-eyed and trembling; this has been one of those weeks, but he slept through last night, and Martin was pleased he could let him sleep a little longer.)

“Yes but today was _my_ day,” Jon grumbles quietly. “If you keep feeding them they’re going to like you better, and then where will I be? All of you ganging up on me.”

Martin laughs, and takes Jon’s free hand in his, rubs his thumb over the back of it, scarred and precious. Another reminder, like Jon’s voice, like Martin shivering in the cold, of all they’ve lost and all they haven’t. A reminder that they’re alive. He lifts Jon’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“You’ve figured out my nefarious scheme to turn the cows against you,” he says, clutching his heart. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it,” Jon says solemnly, and tugs Martin closer, almost spilling his tea in the process.

Eventually, they’ll drag themselves out of the warm cocoon of the duvet and go downstairs. They’ll drive down to the village in the battered old Vauxhall, and Jon will insist on buying extra carrots so he can rescue his reputation with the girls. They’ll eat lunch at the pub, and Jon won’t look at anyone with hunger in his eyes, and Martin won’t go distant or fade from view.

They’ll be human, and together, and they’ll both know how very lucky they are.


	18. “Send jm kisses”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot I wrote this one! Lottie asked for JonMartin kisses and the fandom (including me) provided.

_Kiss him,_ Jon thinks. 

_He’s back, he_ chose _to come back, and he’s right. there. Kiss him._

Martin, sitting at the desk beside him, glances up and smiles. His smile is a little more subdued than it used to be, these days, but it still lights up his face. It still makes Jon’s heart sing. He looks a little curious, questioning, as if he felt Jon’s eyes on him. But not as if he’s read Jon’s mind. Not as if he knows that Jon’s been thinking about kissing him almost constantly since he came back to the Archives. 

_Kiss him,_ Jon thinks, as Martin returns to the pile of documents he’s working through. 

It’s late, and everyone else has given up for the night. It’s just the two of them, working through every possible document related to the Extinction. Jon because he doesn’t sleep much these days anyway, and Martin because he feels the urgency of preventing the emergence more strongly than any of them. Jon knows he still feels guilty about turning his back on Peter’s plan, for coming back to them. _To me,_ he tries not to think, because that’s not fair. 

Regardless of the reason, Martin is back, and Jon hasn’t been able to stop thinking about how much he wants to kiss him. Hasn’t come even close to screwing up the courage to do it. 

_You won’t kiss him,_ he thinks. 

Jon forces his eyes away from Martin’s profile, Martin’s forehead furrowed in concentration as he studies a file. Does his best to lose himself in the research, to forget about what a coward he is. This is what’s important, not his bloody feelings.

He reaches for the next folder on the pile, and as he does, he sees Martin reaching out as well. The convergence seems to take forever, spooling out in slow motion, and yet at the same time utterly inevitable, until his hand lands on top of Martin’s on the pile of documents. 

Martin’s hand is very warm.

“Oh,” says Jon, intelligently. He looks up from where his fingers are lying on Martin’s, and meets Martin’s eyes, which are blue and lovely and filled with something that might be hope. 

“Jon…” Martin says, softly. 

“Damn it,” Jon says, and kisses him. 

Martin’s mouth is soft and dry against his, and he leans into the kiss, his hand coming up to cup the back of Jon’s skull as Jon’s hands grip his shoulders. It feels like the most wonderful, startling thing Jon’s ever done; it feels like something he’s done every day forever. 

After a long moment they pull apart, and Martin is smiling at him again. There’s something even brighter about it, this time. 

“I’ve, uh, I’ve been thinking about that for a long time,” Martin confesses, sounding a little breathless. Jon can’t help the soft laugh that escapes him. 

“Me too,” he says. “For far too long.” 

“I suppose we’re both a bit hopeless,” says Martin, twining their fingers together. Jon supposes they are, but as long as they’re hopeless together, that’s okay.


	19. A little comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS for episode 170 in this one!

Jon doesn’t stop talking as they leave the Lonely. He’s aware that he’s rambling—babbling, probably—but he can’t bring himself to stop, to let the cold silence of this place close around them. Martin doesn’t say much, as Jon tells him about the book he was reading when he—when the world ended—just makes occasional  _ mm-hmm _ sounds and squeezes Jon’s hand. 

The book was a pop science paperback about evolution that he’d found on one of Daisy’s shelves, along with a handful of techno thrillers and a copy of  _ Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. _ Jon’s not sure he absorbed much of it at the time, but now its contents are  _ known _ to him without effort, along with the fact that its authors had a falling out before publication and one of them died of a stroke without ever reconciling. 

They find the exit while Jon is talking about punctuated equilibrium, and the fog closes behind them like a wall, shutting them out. Martin gives a sort of full-body shiver, like a dog coming out of water, and Jon looks over at him.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I think so,” Martin says. “Just...you know. Leaving my domain and all that.” His tone is false joviality and his smile is weak, and Jon knows better than to leave it at that. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get away from here and then we can stop for a bit. Rest.”

They walk for a while, until the blasted landscape folds the fog out of sight. Jon does not let go of Martin’s hand, takes them to the base of a rocky outcropping; not a shelter—there is no shelter in this world—but the memory of one. The illusion of somewhere just a little safer. He unties the sleeping bag from the top of his rucksack and spreads it out on the ground. Sits down cross legged and pats the space next to him. Martin folds to the ground beside him, and his hand finds Jon’s again. He sighs.

“Sorry, this isn’t exactly a comfortable rest spot.”

“More comfortable than the chairs back in that place.” Martin laughs at his own joke, but it rings hollow and hurt, and Jon can see the rawness in his expression. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. Martin chews on his lip for a moment, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. 

“I’m not sure I can,” he admits. “It was—it already feels sort of  _ faded? _ Like one of those weird dreams that make perfect sense when you’re in them, and then as soon as you wake up it starts to fall apart, you know? When I was in there, it all felt so—it made sense. Everything was telling me it was where I belonged, and I was scared and lonely, but—but part of me  _ wanted _ to be. Is that…? I mean, that’s not normal, is it?”

Jon knows he doesn’t feel things right, anymore. He never really did, if he’s honest, always struggled to have  _ appropriate _ emotional responses that wouldn’t leave people disappointed or angry. It’s even worse now, because he still feels fear and pain, but the response they provoke in him is...sickening, when he lets himself think about it. Pain and fear evolved to direct organisms away from harmful situations, but those aren’t  _ harmful  _ to him these days, are they? 

“I’m...probably not the best person to tell you about normal,” he says. “I’m not sure I’ve known what that is for, well, for quite a long time. But...we learned how to be—how to  _ feel _ —in a world that doesn’t exist anymore. I’m not sure there’s a—a blueprint for how you should feel.”

He doesn’t tell Martin about the part of him that turns towards fear like a flower to the sun, unfurling ugly petals in the glow of human trauma. He doesn’t say that the Lonely was suffused with Martin’s fear and confusion,  _ soaked _ in it; that even when Jon couldn’t find him, he could  _ taste _ him; that this is yet another in a long line of things that will haunt him. This isn’t about him. 

Instead, he puts an arm around Martin’s shoulder to pull him close. Martin is solid and warm and  _ here _ , and that’s all that matters right now. 

“Would you like to lie down for a while?” he asks. There is little comfort in rest, but they can still take some from closeness. Martin shifts against him, and his smile this time is tired, but genuine. 

“Yes, thanks,” he says. He shuffles down until he’s lying with his head on Jon’s thigh. Jon lets his fingers comb through Martin’s hair, feeling some of the tension start to drain as Martin relaxes against him. Martin’s eyes close, his breathing slow and deep; he trusts Jon to keep him safe, like this, and it is such a precious duty.

Jon hums quietly, snatches of nonsense he remembers from his childhood, or from the radio, or that he’s pulled from the ether of human knowledge, and for a while he thinks Martin might actually be asleep, until he hears him say, softly:

“Would you really have left me there, if I wanted to stay?” 

Jon hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out how to say what he means. Martin waits, patient, while he gets his thoughts in order, and at last he says:

“I would have. If that was what you wanted. I know that there’s a...umm, a power imbalance, with me being the unholy architect of this nightmare world.” Martin snorts a laugh at that. “But I promise you—I  _ promise, _ I will  _ never _ take your choices away from you, Martin. They are yours and yours alone.” 

“Okay,” Martin’s voice is quiet, and Jon can’t tell if what he’s said was comforting or upsetting; he so often seems to miss the mark on these things. He reaches down with the free hand that’s not stroking Martin’s hair, and clasps Martin’s fingers loosely in his. 

“I’m glad you didn’t, though,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d be without you.” 

“Probably more of a disaster than usual,” says Martin dryly, and squeezes his hand. Jon laughs, and they stay there for a while longer, until it’s time to move on. 


End file.
